


Pretending

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, PTSD, rated M bc i don't know where it's going yet and it might get explicit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 22:10:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was simple. He had to get the t-shirt over his head. He had to bend his elbows and slide it on. He had to, but he couldn’t. Stiles sucked in a breath. Every time he would lift his arms to put it on, the pain was too much. It was in his ribs, his shoulders, his chest. There were probably a few fractured bones, a few cracked ribs. There were certainly more than a few bruises. Oval bruises. Hand-shaped bruises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Absolutely Fine

**Author's Note:**

> here is a list of things you should know:  
> -trigger warning tw tw tw tw tw tw

It was simple. He had to get the t-shirt over his head. He had to bend his elbows and slide it on. He had to, but he couldn’t. Stiles sucked in a breath. Every time he would lift his arms to put it on, the pain was too much. It was in his ribs, his shoulders, his chest. There were probably a few fractured bones, a few cracked ribs. There were certainly more than a few bruises. Oval bruises. Hand-shaped bruises.

Stiles had the t-shirt in his fingers. His throat was tight. All he needed was to get the goddamn thing over his head. If he could do this it would be like it hadn’t even happened. If he could just get the t-shirt on it would be like he was okay. “ _I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fucking fine_ ,” he thought, slowing his motions down, taking a moment to collect himself.

And then he raised his hands up, his elbows and shoulders bent back. But he whimpered, breath catching, inhaling too fast, putting more pressure on his chest – too much pressure. _Goddamn it. God damn it, god damn it, god damn it._ Stiles fell back on to the bed. It hurt. Everything hurt.

The noises caught in his throat. He didn’t want to whine, to moan. He didn’t want to make any sound at all because all he wanted was for this to never have happened. Stiles was sitting in his room, and it was seven in the morning, and he wasn’t crying. He absolutely was not crying. He was _fine._

*****

It took three weeks for him to feel like the words weren’t sticking in his mouth. No one was asking Stiles about the bruises any more—they were almost gone, just a few yellow spots lingering above his hips, and no one was asking him where the hell he had been over the last month, why he wasn’t spending time with his friends.

It had been fumbling words and rushed excuses at first, but he had solidified his responses. He had learned to execute his answers perfectly. _What the hell happened, kid? That’s a nasty bruise, what’d you do? Hey, how’d you get that cut on your cheek?_ The questions had seemed never ending. _I was in a bike accident. Yeah, I know, I know. I was going too fast. I took the curve a little recklessly. Thank God I had my helmet on, right? Always be safe kids!_

Stiles was fine. He was getting out of bed. He was going to school. He was putting everything as far back into his head as he could. So what if he still took blistering hot showers? So what if he scrubbed his skin raw? So what if wouldn’t look in the mirror, if he didn’t feel like eating, if he woke up in the middle of the night screaming, chest heaving up and down like he wouldn’t ever be able to breathe again? _So what._


	2. Talking

_Derek?_ Stiles thought. _What the hell is_ he _doing here?_ His thoughts went unvoiced more often than not now. Sometimes it was just too much work to force the words out. He didn’t want to risk sounding like a kid, like he was scared of anything, of everything.

But it was him. It was Derek coming in through his bedroom window, swinging his legs in first, contorting himself to fit through the half-opened rectangle. Stiles had been in bed. It was midnight, but he hadn’t been sleeping. Why would he want to start the nightmares any earlier than usual?

He shot up though, sitting straight against the headboard, heart beating a little faster than usual. Derek hit the floor with a soft thud, careful to keep the noise levels to a minimum. Stiles thought he had better say something, say anything, but his voice was beginning to catch again.

“Come to sleep over, Derek? We can watch chick flicks and braid each other’s hair if you’d like,” he said a little too loudly after a moment’s pause. Derek stood motionless in the center of his room, giving the boy a once over—his shirt was off, and he was wearing a pair of blue and black checkered pajama pants, no socks.

“So I thought we would have a talk,” Derek voiced quietly. He sounded . . . _careful_.

“I didn’t know there was anything we needed to talk about.” Stiles fingers were wound tightly around the sheets. Derek took a step towards him.

“Let’s start with your behavior.”

“What the hell, Derek? We aren’t going to talk about _my behavior_ in the middle of the night. Maybe we should talk about _your behavior_.” Stiles had pulled the sheets off and was getting ready to stand.

“Don’t think you have anyone fooled, Stiles, about your little ‘bike accident’.” Derek emphasized the two words, placing them under obvious speculation. “You leave the fight at twelve and mysteriously text Scott to say you’ve arrived home safely at two? That’s a lot of missing time. I was willing to overlook it then, but you’ve been hiding away in your bedroom for the last month. You’ve been avoiding the pack. What. Is. Going. On.” He separated each word, enunciating them clearly, his tone demanding.

Stiles stood a few paces from Derek. “There’s nothing going on! I don’t know what you think happened, but whatever it is, you’re wrong,” the words flew out of his mouth, strung together too closely, obviously rushed. His tone wasn’t far from pleading—begging Derek to please, please, please believe him.

Stiles inhaled sharply, almost inaudibly, or at least it would have been if the person before him had been human. However imperceptible his anxiety might have been to someone _normal_ , a werewolf wasn’t going to miss those things.

Derek closed the gap, grabbing Stiles’ wrist without hesitation. “Tell me what happened that night, or I swear to God I will snap this in half,” he growled, yanking the arm up into the air.

And suddenly Stiles’ was hyperventilating. He couldn’t get enough air. He was going to suffocate right there, right then.   _Not here, not here, not here. This isn’t happening. I’m not going to have a panic attack in front of him_.

 Derek’s grip on Stiles’ wrist only tightened. _What is wrong with this kid? What the hell is going on?_

But Stiles wasn’t in his bedroom anymore. He was at the school. He was in the locker room. Peter Hale was standing there, and Stiles’ heart was beating at tachycardia rate.

Hale was not supposed to be in the school’s locker room. He was supposed to be out there, fighting Derek and Scott. He was supposed to be with the others, and Stiles was supposed to be booking it home as fast as possible.

But he was there, and Stiles was at a complete loss. What was he supposed to say? Please don’t hurt me? Please don’t tear me to shreds? Please let me live?

“STILES!”

And then Derek was standing over a teenage boy that was on his knees and gasping for air. “Stiles! Jesus Christ!” Stiles let out a strangled sounding “um”. But the panic was relenting. He had pushed it back, pushed everything back again where it was supposed to be.

The scene was absurd. Derek was at a loss. He pulled Stiles to his feet and released the wrist carefully, as if he were handling fragile goods. There was no way he wanted to trigger that response again. “Are you . . . are you _okay_?” It was all he could think to ask.

The absent look Derek had noticed during the episode seemed to have been replaced by an unfortunate mix of confusion and fear. Stiles nodded. Yes, absolutely. He was fine. He would be fine if Derek would just leave him alone, for God’s sake.

“Leave, Derek.” And Derek didn’t have an inkling as to how he should have handled the situation, so he left. He backed away from Stiles, worry furrowed into his brow, and he swung himself out the window. He left the kid standing in the middle of his bedroom. Anger that had been etched into the lines of Stiles’ face was quickly replaced by relief and exhaustion. He dropped to the floor, crumpling into a ball. Stiles would not cry. He wouldn’t cry because Derek could probably still hear him. He wouldn’t cry because his Dad was asleep. He wouldn’t cry because none of this had ever happened, and he didn’t need to cry about something that hadn’t happened.


	3. Avoidance

Seven days passed before Derek made his second appearance. Stiles had been avoiding Scott all week. He had been avoiding humanity all week. It was one in the morning when Derek swung in through the window, landing soundlessly, but this time he did not approach the bed. Instead, he sat against the wall farthest the kid, pulling his knees up towards his chest and resting his arms onto them.

Stiles exhaled, nervous and annoyed. “Get out, Derek.”

Derek remained motionless.

“I said get out. I’m not in the mood for a heart to heart today.” Stiles tone had less threat and more desperation, although it was concealed well enough to sound akin to exasperation.

Derek’s breathing was steady. He had clearly taken the wrong approach the week earlier, but he wouldn’t be leaving prematurely on this attempt. And aside from all that, Stiles’ threats had no meaning for him. The only thing that had driven him out previously was pure panic and surprise. That wasn’t going to happen again.

Stiles sat up, crossing his legs and leaning against the headboard. “You need to leave.” He tried to make his voice as menacing as possible. Derek half-smiled, “Stiles, you aren’t getting me to leave, and we never got to have our chat last week. Now is a good time, wouldn’t you agree?” Stiles didn’t return the smile, lips forming hard, thin lines. He knew it was fruitless. There was no way he could force him out.

Derek lifted himself from the floor, approaching the bed with obvious caution, and sat on the far end. Stiles shifted himself uncomfortably. The proximity wasn’t doing his heart any favors, and Derek knew that. Proximity to anyone hadn’t been doing Stiles any favors lately, especially proximity to large, male werewolves in the middle the night.

Derek made eye contact with Stiles who looked away immediately. Both refused to speak. When the clock hit three, the two were beginning to show signs of exhaustion, and it was at this point that Derek picked himself up once more, perplexed that Stiles had held up the silent act over the last several hours. He crossed the room and, without a word of goodbye, slid out the window.

*****

The supermarket aisles were lit with fluorescents. It was too bright, and Stiles’ eyes were having none of it. Did they really need that much light to showcase vegetables? And did they really need mirrors up there, along the wall? Stiles flinched away from his own reflection, avoiding the purple surrounding his eye sockets. He avoided himself in general these days.

There was a crash behind him. Stiles’ heart stuttered— a reflex reaction to the clatter, to any loud noise really. He let out a breath. It was just a stack of tomato cans. One was rolling toward him. He bent, snatching it up. “Here, you…” Stiles paused. It was Scott, accompanied per usual by Allison.

“Oh, hey man, didn’t see you there,” Stiles remarked casually.

“Where the hell have you been! You don’t answer your phone any more these days, Stiles!” Scott’s tone was light. He had not been overly concerned with his friend’s drastic change in attitude over the last month. He had assumed it was a passing phase.

“Hey, yeah, well, gotta go buy this, um, this can of tomatoes right here!” Stiles flailed the can up in the air, demonstrating his enthusiasm on the topic. “So I’ll see you later, Scott! In school! You too, Allison!” He was turned around and walking away before either of them had the chance to reply, their brows arched and mouths slightly ajar.

Stiles had no inclination to talk to either of the pair. Their presence brought along forced smiles and uncomfortable questions. _Hey, where were you on Saturday? What’s been going on lately? Why can’t you work on the project with me today?_

And he was scared. He was scared of them and their happiness. He was scared because nothing was normal, and he thought maybe nothing would ever be normal again. He just wanted things to be the same as they had been before everything had changed.

But laughing still hurt. Those ribs he had fractured were still uncomfortable. He thought that maybe things could return to the way they were though. Maybe his ribs would heal and laughing wouldn’t hurt so much after that. Maybe everything would be fine, like he had been saying it was for the last month. Maybe if he could just go to the supermarket and look at his reflection under those fluorescent lights and laugh because he looked like shit, maybe then it would be okay.


	4. Nightmares

_He was up against the locker, back pressed against metal hinges and his heart beating one thousand miles a minute. Peter Hale’s face was inches away from his own. “I’m going to teach your friends a lesson. They are going to know exactly how vulnerable they are, and in exactly how many ways I can hurt them. They are going to realize how many loose ends they have left lying around for me to play with.”_

_Stiles flinched back even further, his head coming into contact with the metal of the locker. “I don’t really think that’s necessary, do you?” he stuttered, panic rising. He darted his head to the right, attempting to slide beneath the arms that were pressed against either side of his body._

_But instead of bashing his head in right then and there, Peter did the unexpected._ _He undid_ _his belt_ _._ No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, NO. _This was absolutely not going to happen. “Hey! Woah, slow down, kiddo! Don’t you think we should have a first date or something before we get started on that!” Stiles yelled, his voice increasing in pitch over the course of the sentence._

_He pushed up against Peter’s chest, adrenaline fueling the search for escape. Apparently that was not the answer. Peter shoved him back into the locker, the force enough to knock the breath from his lungs. Stiles coughed, taking a blow to the face simultaneously. He was on the tiled floor, blood dripping from his nose when Peter dragged him upright, throwing a few more punches in his direction. Stiles blanched, the impact of the blows sparking serious protest from his body. He was terrified._

_And the entire locker room was dark. It was late. He was spewing red from his lips and his nose. Peter’s fingers were on the buttons of his jeans, unzipping._ He did not want this to happen. None of this should be happening. _Stiles kicked out aimlessly, hoping to come in contact with skin. He pushed at the hands around his waist._

_“Don’t…do this,” he breathed, the effort of the words monumental due to the increasingly sharp pain in his chest. Peter flipped Stiles around, forcing his face into the locker, hands sliding his clothing off. Stiles whimpered._ Please, _he thought._ Please let this not be happening.

_But it was happening, and Stiles was screaming, and Peter’s fingers were digging into his hips. Stiles was crying._

And then he woke up shouting and sweating with limbs thrashing against hands. “Hey, hey, hey,” a voice whispered. He was doing his best to stay calm. “You’re fine, you’re fine.” A moment filled with the hum of an air conditioner passed clumsily. “You’ll _be_ fine,” the voice revised. Stiles was staring at Derek with wild eyes, a pair of hands around his wrists, panic still paramount.

He fell back onto the bed, body deflating only slightly. “You have to tell me what’s going on. I don’t know how to help you.” Derek’s voice was intensely worried. He might have guessed wrong about the whole Stiles thing. He might have been very wrong. This wasn’t normal. Nightmare like this weren’t normal.

Stiles attempted to struggle out of the constricting grip, but Derek had pinned him down onto the bed, afraid that if he thrashed any harder he would hurt himself. Stiles did not react well to the increased pressure, alarm ensuing immediately.

He was stuck in panic mode with Derek’s body hunched over his own. “Stop, stop, stop! Please. Please don’t do this!” Stiles was starting to scream again. “Please don’t hurt me. I don’t want to! I don’t want to!” He was scared out of his mind, reality distorted around him.

Derek released him immediately, feeling slightly nauseous. _Jesus Christ. What had happened to him?_

Stiles’ entire body was wracked with tremors. He pulled a sheet over his head, curling into fetal position simultaneously. Derek moved back. He had come to talk with Stiles again, but he had entered the room in time to see his form tangled in blankets, his body bucking from side to side. He had been crying.

Stilinksi had been having one hell of a nightmare, and Derek had done the first thing that had come to mind. He had woken him up. And now Stiles was pressing himself as far away from him as was humanly possible, and Derek was exceedingly worried.

_It’s just Derek. It’s just Derek. I’m okay. I’m fine. Everything is fine. He’s not going to hurt me_. Stiles was doing his best to calm down. He had taken the sheet off from his head. He had sat up against the headboard. He had stopped screaming.

“Stiles,” Derek moved his hand toward him but retracted it when the boy flinched away. “Stiles, tell me what happened.” He couldn’t help the anger in his tone. It was more of a command and less of a question. He had tried very much to keep his voice neutral, but with the way things were going, Derek wanted to punch whoever had fucked the kid up in this way. He wanted to hurt whoever had done this. But he inhaled deeply instead, attempting to relax. He absolutely did not want to make the situation worse.

Stiles looked towards the wall, eyes intently _not_ making contact with Derek’s. “Sorry, just a nightmare,” he said at last, the words disjointed. “Bullshit, just a nightmare,” Derek responded, immediately regretting the harshness of the statement.

“Stiles, that was not a normal dream. And you’ve been absent from just about everything for weeks. You haven’t talked to anyone about anything. Things aren’t right. We’ve been worried. And you need to talk to me. You need to tell me what happened so we can fix it.” Derek was imploring Stiles to meet his gaze. He wanted to know that he wasn’t self-imploding right then. He wanted to make sure the kid was hearing his words.

Stiles looked towards Derek, eyes tired and upset. He couldn’t say it, couldn’t tell him what had happened. He couldn’t make those words come out. He could only think them. His voice was stuck, trapped inside his chest.

“Nothing happened,” he had to choke the sentence out. It was heavy in his mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> additional notes  
> -this is my first ever fic (how is it???)  
> -(i've never seen teen wolf and yet here i am writing a fic about it, pls don't be mad!)  
> -if i've gotten something wrong, go ahead and tell me! i tried to do my research but i'm working on the "events depicted here are before season three i think" aspect (there's a season three, right??)


End file.
